


You Were Never Free

by Jadelyn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Coercion, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, after a fashion anyway - Freeform, not like in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27448015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: Jaskier has a capital-r Reputation.  Lover, philanderer, and libertine, wandering about making cuckolds of half the Continent.What if it's not by choice?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	You Were Never Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honeylemontrashcat](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=honeylemontrashcat).



> Please heed the tags! This one is dark and there is no happy ending. Specific explanation of the noncon elements in end note.
> 
> For my darling honeylemontrashcat, who said it's hurt the bard o'clock. Hap borfday frien!

Contrary to popular belief, Jaskier did not in fact think with his dick.

Not anymore, anyway.

Not since he’d thought with his dick for the last time, when he was 18, and wound up getting into bed with a sorceress who’d turned out to be far more coldhearted and ruthless than he’d expected. Now…now, _she_ thought with his dick, in a manner of speaking.

* * *

As he cast his gaze around the banquet, the ring on his finger trembled against his skin and he heard her voice slithering through his thoughts.

_That one._

Jaskier’s gaze sharpened as he looked over the woman his Lady had chosen. Petite and delicate, with long red hair and green eyes that stayed hard and cold even as she smiled and charmed the nobleman she was talking with.

_She’s the true mastermind behind her husband’s trade empire. Worked with King Radovid to secure the exclusive royal charter for their grain shipping. I suspect she had something on him that forced his hand, and I want to know what._

Another married one, Jaskier thought, suppressing a sigh. He was racking up an impressive cuckold count. Eventually - and sooner rather than later, the way things were going - he’d need a bodyguard to attend these functions to keep the cuckolds (not to mention the sons and fathers protecting their female family members’ virtues) away.

But he knew his Lady didn’t particularly care for such details as his physical safety. So he cut that line of thought short, pasted a smile on his face and began to drift toward the woman, ready to charm her out of her clothes - and more importantly, out of her secrets.

* * *

Jaskier had stopped crying afterward by the time he'd been working for his Lady for a year or twor. And he had learned, eventually, how to keep from vomiting afterward as well. How to silence the mocking voices in the back of his mind. Traveling with Geralt had helped quite a bit with all of that - not because it was any less worse with his presence, but because the terror of Geralt finding out what was happening was enough to override Jaskier's instinctive reactions to what his Lady forced on him. He couldn’t always control himself for the sake of his own comfort or dignity, but to keep Geralt from getting involved? Funnily enough, he suddenly discovered boundless reserves of self-control he could tap for that.

It meant that Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s taste in paramours, assuming he had some kind of preference for dallying with married people. It meant that he made snarky, sometimes outright mean comments about Jaskier’s dick getting them both into trouble. It meant Jaskier looked like a slut - not even a whore, since whores get paid - and a rake to the most important person in his entire world. It meant that he would never be able to love Geralt the way he wanted to, that he could never offer him fidelity or a real relationship even if Geralt were interested.

But it also meant that Geralt _didn’t_ try to take on a powerful and cruel sorceress and get himself killed trying to free Jaskier from her clutches.

Jaskier would take that trade any day.

* * *

“What, no married woman’s bed to sleep in tonight?” Geralt raised an eyebrow as Jaskier slipped into their room, lute in hand after wrapping up the night’s performance.

“Afraid not, dear witcher,” Jaskier said breezily. “You’re stuck with me tonight.” He dumped his lute in its case and sprawled out onto the bed, taking up as much of it as possible. Geralt watched from where he sat at the room’s single small table, rolling his eyes before going back to whatever he was doing with the dagger in his hand.

The witcher’s lips quirked, almost fondly, Jaskier thought. “Perhaps we should take you to a healer tomorrow,” he deadpanned. “You haven’t gotten us run out of a town in weeks. Are you dying? Perhaps you’re a doppler?”

The ring sent tingles up his hand, toward his wrist. A warning.

Jaskier pushed himself up and perched on the edge of the bed, waving a desultory hand in Geralt’s direction to draw attention to his jewelry. “I wear too much silver,” he countered.

For example, the ring the sorceress had put on his finger that night was silver. And it never, ever came off.

“But perhaps you’re right,” he said a little too brightly, to mask the sudden tightness in his throat as he stood. “I should go find someone who will appreciate my presence this fine evening.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed as he watched Jaskier head for the door. “Jaskier…” he said.

Jaskier ignored him.

“That’s not what I -”

Jaskier closed the door behind himself and headed down the stairs to bolster his reputation a bit further. Couldn’t have the notorious philanderer suddenly turn celibate, after all. It might invite questions. Questions his Lady would not wish answered.

There were several lovely women still in the common room, but his eyes skipped over them and alighted upon a man with cold eyes. His mouth was drawn in a hard line, calloused hands wrapped around his tankard. Perfect.

Jaskier was outside and pressed up against the back wall of the tavern in short order. He bit into the side of his fist to muffle himself as the man, whose name he hadn’t bothered to get, thrust roughly into him after only prepping him with a single finger and some spit.

It burned terribly and tears were leaking steadily from Jaskier’s eyes, but he pushed back into each thrust, encouraging the man to take him harder, faster. Rougher. He needed it to be more, needed it to be enough to force him out of his own head for a little while. Needed to feel the ache of it for days after, to remind him of what he was. Remind him that this was all he was good for.

The man finished with a low grunt and a hot rush of spend into Jaskier’s abused arse. Jaskier slumped against the wall as the man pulled out and patted his hip with a chuckle. “Not bad, little bird,” he said mockingly. “Maybe even good enough that I’ll take pity on you, tell my friends to use your mouth instead since I’ve already stretched you out. Might keep them from fucking you so raw you can’t walk come morning. But no promises.”

“Friends?” Jaskier tried to croak, but his throat was thick with suppressed sobs. The man ignored him, tucking himself back into his pants and walking away without another word.

Well. That hadn’t been the plan for tonight, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d wanted to be reminded of his place, after all.

So the next morning, when Geralt’s nostrils flared at the sight of him and he frowned at the scents Jaskier had no doubt coated his skin from the prior night, the bard simply grinned at him and strode out as though everything was entirely normal.

After all, it was.

**Author's Note:**

> Noncon: Jaskier is being coerced by a sorceress to sleep with people to get information for her. Even when he's not doing it on her say-so, he's obligated to make a habit of sleeping around just to establish/maintain his cover as dedicated to pursuing a new paramour every night, so that it's not worthy of remarking on when he has an actual target. He struggles with guilt and shame over it and at the end deliberately seeks out an extra rough encounter as a form of self-harm.


End file.
